The boat lay fixed, resting on the rope,
the deep bosomed ship, fast at anchor.
the deep bosomed ship, fast at anchor.
—from Beowulf
How many years has it been since
Ebbe rescue the drydocked Egyptian dhow
from the battering ram and burning?
I remember the story about how he had to wait
for the full winter moon and king tides
to float it up the shallow channels of Bolinas Creek.
Its carvel-built sides furrowed the bay mud,
as it sailed under stars.
In the darkness of winter, his wife
Angela, sat sewing the sails by hand,
the painted sun blazed on the walls
of the loft as the heavy fog
tongued the windows and doors.
Ebbe hammered his poetry into that boat.
And each year it was not quite ready,
needing more revision and finishing
before the spray of the sea
could baptize that sailing sun.
And his girl-child needed tending-to
on solid ground.
Soon she will be old enough to sail —
she's the steadfast anchor
that keeps her father surely shored.
In his arms, her slight weight
is a more solid metal than iron.
7/9/1984
